What You Feel
by wearemonsters
Summary: Not episode structured, Slash: SamOC. Give this a read, guys. "Sam was sure he was staring into the depths of hell, his vision being consumed by the same darkness he could see within the woman's soul and surely this was it, surely he was going to die.."
1. The Body

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why!

- Stolen shamelessly from Cottonmouth, who's work I adore!

Chapter 1: The Body

"Can you pass the milk, Ma?"  
"Sure."  
"Thanks."  
"Hey, Pa?"  
"Yes?"  
"Can I come hunting with you later?"  
"I don't think so, Timmy."  
"Why not?!"  
"You have to look after our pet, remember.."  
"But PA-"  
"Goddamnit, Timmy, I said no!"  
"Fine."  
"Pass the milk, please, Timmy."  
"Sure, Ma."  
"Thanks."  
"Ma?"  
"Yes?"  
"What am I supposed to feed him?"  
"Oh.. Timmy. I'm sure you'll think of something!"

The front door exploded open, Me, Pa and Timmy shot to their feet, listening to the sounds of running feet. The three of them were shaking in their hand-me-down shoes. Two men burst into the kitchen, Timmy backed away unconsciously and knocked the pint of milk off the table. As soon as the glass settled with a watery squelch, silence blossomed like fire within the small, painfully stifling kitchen.  
Ma was chanting a mantra to herself, "Ohgodohgodohgodohgod."  
"Far from it, bitch!" The man with the shorter hair snarled, training the shotgun he held until the barrel faced Ma's face, she quelled beneath it. Pa stepped in front of her, his chest pushed forwards but Timmy could see him he quaking, his hands vibrating at his sides visibly.  
"Where the fuck is he?!" Short-Hair demanded, the shotgun's vision shifting between Ma, Pa and Timmy.  
"Who!"  
"You know who, bitch!" Short-Hair shouted at Ma, his face was reddening with, no, not anger, but pure unbridled rage. The man behind him with the shaggy hair was glaring at Pa, his sharp eyes darting around the kitchen before they rested on the cellar door, nestled away in the corner besides the pantry.  
Without a word, Shaggy-Hair strode towards it, casting a sideways glance at his partner who remained steadfast.

"Ma! What're they doing!"  
"Ohgodohgodohgodohgod!"  
"Pa call the police, I'm scaaaaared," Timmy began to weep.  
"Shut the _fuck _up!" Short-Hair demanded, pointing the expertly crafted weapon right at Timmy's face. He cried harder. Carefully, slowly, Short-Hair walked backwards towards Shaggy-Hair, the gun didn't move. After a few seconds, the two men were swallowed by the darkness of the cellar as they descended town the stairs.  
Pa smiled.

.

* * *

.

"Sammy, are you sure about this?"  
"Positive, Dean."  
Dean stared back up the stairs at the square of light they had left behind. The cellar was deeper than he expected, much deeper. _Into the depths of hell, _he found himself thinking.  
"But are you _sure?_ That family seems awfully.. hick, but normal y,'know?"

Sam scoffed, about to reply when he stumbled down the last step but the man behind him caught him by the scruff his neck, pulled him up and the youngest Winchester sibling – blushing furiously – stepped off the stairs. He stood for a moment, staring around him at the inky darkness before he realised his vision had nothing to adjust to. He set about feeling the oddly damp wall beside him,searching for for a light switch. A powerful scent assaulted his nostrils, Dean's too by the sound he made behind him, painfully familiar but the source eluded him.

_Click._

The room was thrown into white, cheap and tacky light. Sam dimly heard Dean gag behind him but Sam was staring around, wide eyed and felt the colour drain out of his face. Across the concrete walls of the cellar, blood was splattered vigorously, like a child playing fingerprints with ten tubs of crimson paint. There was no structure to the macabre display either, no markings, no ritualistic symbols. Just blood. And with the blood, the smell almost became a physical force. Sam could almost taste it. Eyes settling on a strange mass in the corner of the room, he made his way towards it, putting a forearm across his mouth. Dean remained behind him, staring up at the door they had entered with the shotgun wavering slightly. He was repressing the urge to vomit.  
When Sam reached the mass, he watched it for a few moments before realisation sunk in.  
_This was him!  
_A human, a boy, no older than seventeen but perhaps younger, was chained to the wall. Held up by arms that might have been toned once, they were reduced to sticks by malnutrition. Shackles that had been bolted high enough in the wall to make the boy half kneel-and half hang, metal dug into the boy's thin wrists. Sam could see yellowing purple bruises buried deep within his skin. The body hung limply, there was nothing covering him but what might have been a sheet once, greasy with dried blood and covering his crotch. Sam's well trained eyes studied over the boy, feeling bile rise up in his throat. The boy had been literally ripped to shreds, strange markings and symbols littered the boy's bruised and yellowing skin, marks carved deep inside the boy's flesh. In some places, Sam was sure he could see bristles of bone deep within in maws of gore. Although he didn't know how, Sam knew the blood sprayed across the wall was the boy's. Chewing his lip, Sam brought his hand up and lifted the boy's loose head and fell backwards suddenly. The boy was still alive, one visible eye blinking hollowly. He didn't seem to be focusing on anything.

"Oh, god..." the words left Sam's mouth before he could help it, and he felt something break inside his chest as the boy whimpered, the half-spoken sob falling from his raggedy lips.  
"Far from it!" Yelled a woman's voice, dripping in malice and.. a Texan accent.. Spinning around, Sam just caught Dean flying through the air and landing in a heap beneath Sam's feet. He groaned, tried to sit up but collapsed on the cold and bloody floor.  
Sam was beside him instantly, one hand on his shoulder and the other immediately feeling for his pulse.

It was slow, but there.

"But not for much longer," The woman – followed closely by her husband and spawn – announced after invading his thoughts, shuffling infuriatingly slowly towards Sam. He knew why she was being so slow, Sam couldn't escape, not with a chained boy and the dead weight of his unresponsive brother. He was trapped.  
But he had to try, had to fight; Sam reached into his jacket, reaching for the knife that hung there -  
But found himself being flung towards the wall by an unseen force and with a crackhe was suspended there, by the chained boy whose head lifted ever so slightly.  
"So you're the famous Sam Winchester then?" The woman said, the other two standing by the stairs, watching Sam with hungry eyes.  
Sam opened his mouth but found himself unable to form words, his throat was being compressed by the telekinesis that held him there. Dark shapes at the edge of his vision swam dangerously close around him. White fireworks of delirum exploded in front of him.  
"I expected something a little more..."  
The woman laughed.

"Formidable." And then her pupils seemed to swallow her eyes and Sam was sure he was staring into the depths of hell, his vision being consumed by the same darkness he could see within the woman's soul and surely this was it, surely he was going to die of this telekinetic strangulation but oh, god, _Dean!  
_The chained boy screamed suddenly, his voice sickeningly horse, he arched against the wall, his spine forming a perfect curve before he began to shake,convulse, crying, shouting.  
Something flashed behind Sam's eyes and he was sure it was the chill of death, but he found himself sliding down the wall, gasping for air, his throat _burning _but alive and released. _Had the boy...?_

The boy beside him was still shaking, the wounds on his body were weeping heavily the more he threw himself around the chains and Sam realised the left side of his face was covered with a mask of dried blood, an enamel coating that hid even his eye with a crimson haze.  
Suddenly, Sam felt a string of Latin flow out of his mouth, words that he didn't even know but felt strangely familiar, like seeing a distant relative that you once used to be very close with..  
And the demons in front of him were screaming, sharp spasms of involuntary movement wracking their stolen bodies and then darkness billowing around them as it surged out of their mouthes like smog, filling the cellar with a fake night and Sam found himself chanting the unknown words faster until his tongue began to ache. His throat burnt from the strangulation but he forced the words out harder, against his will until all the breath in his lungs seemed to combust within him. There was a great _whooshing_ sound like the air being sucked out of vacuum and Sam found himself surrounded by his unconscious brother, three dead bodies and the mysterious, bleeding boy who was once again sinking into the stupor that claimed him.

Sam stood up, massaging his throat with one hand, staring at the scene around him with wide eyes. He opened his mouth, tested his distressed vocal cords and said, "I should've been a fucking lawyer."


	2. Sky Baby

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why!

Stolen shamelessly from Cottonmouth, who's work I adore!

Chapter 2: The Calm before the Storm

Eventually Sam had managed to revive Dean, through clever use of tipping frigid water over his brother's thick head. A sopping wet, and pissed off Dean escorted Sam through the house. They had left the three bodies in the basement, Sam felt a little guilty about this but Dean had said that it wasn't their job to clean up the mess. The cadavers, that is, Dean had painstakingly removed every trace of Winchester from the home. In Sam's arms, being carried bridal style, was the limp form of the chained boy. The youngest Winchester had delicately wrapped the boy in his jacket, and after rooting through the house of the demoniacally possessed, had stolen a blanket and done the same with that. Like he was handling glass, Sam had lifted the boy easily into his arms, expecting him to cry out if pain but he didn't. This was the first thing that struck Sam as bizarre, the boy was covered in wounds, some potentially fatal, yet after the spasmodic fit earlier, none of them bled. And amazingly, he was still alive. Sam had watched the boys eyelashes flickering, smoothing the crease in his forehead when Dean wasn't looking. Silently, the boy had turned inwards to Sam's chest, the side of his face masked in blood hidden now, and he looked almost serene, buried in cloth and pressed against Sam's chest.

"Sam?"

Startled, Sam whirled around, still cradling the boy close to his chest. His cheeks flushed with heat.  
"I said it's clear, the street's empty. We can leave," Dean said from the threshold of the broken front door. Nodding, Sam followed after his brother as they made their way to the impala. Between the two of them, they managed to maneuverer Sam and the boy into the back seat – the boy's head resting on Sam's lap.  
_I don't want any fucking blood on the upholstery, _Dean had grunted, staring at the two in the back through the rear view mirror. Sam was staring down at the boy's face again, idle fingers tracing the demonic runes and ritualistic cuts that were branded into the boy's flesh. Interestingly, like they didn't bleed, the boy didn't seem to be aware of the pain that applying pressure to them should have caused.

Dean looked away from the mirror, embarrassed, like he had intruded on something private and intimate.

They rode is silence for the rest of the journey towards the motel they were staying at, Dean didn't question his brother's immediate protection, almost devotion, to the bloody bundle on his lap because a part of him knew why he was being so careful. Why he was being so _loyal _to such a stranger. Dean knew that the vision his brother had seen the boy in was perhaps one of the worst he had witnessed, and that filled Dean with a curious sense of helplessness they he couldn't relate to Sam's apparent clairvoyancy.  
But on a deeper level, something subconscious, he knew that Sam could see himself exactly in the boy's skin. Could see himself chained up in some demon's basement, being used as a weapon for being different. For being born. Dean's eyes glazed across the mirror again, his eyes softening. He knew the boy was different, oh yes, he _knew.  
_Above them, the overbearing and pregnant sky ripped, pulsed, and began to spill lashes of freezing rain upon the impala's roof. Above them, wind screamed as it beat the bruised and purple sky.

The boy didn't stir.


	3. So Pretty

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why!

- Stolen shamelessly from Cottonmouth, who's work I adore!

Chapter 3: 

Dean and Sam had arrived in Alice three days before they had rescued the boy. They had heard rumors on the grapevine, terrible rumors, that something demonic had been happening in the south of Texas; something right up their alley. They had taken the long drive from their previous gig to Alice, mostly in silence. Sometimes having lighthearted conversations, sometimes listening to Dean's terrible taste in music, but mostly in silence. Ignoring the elephant sitting in the car with them.

Dean only had three more months to live.

Sam didn't like to think about this for obviously reasons. When he did, his stomach began to tighten and he felt the ground beneath his feet vanish. And something inside his chest seemed to shatter and it made tears burn in his eyes. He knew, of course, that his heart was breaking. Life without Dean seemed.. impossible.

There seemed nothing they could do, they had exhausted every possible resource and contact they could get their hands on. Amulets, runes, potions, spells, rituals, hexes, anti-jinxes, voodoo, more bargains, more demonic tricks. Nothing worked and Sam was starting to realise that Dean may very well... die. It was an odd experience, they had been dealing with death for so long; the death of their mother, their father, Jess.. even the demons they hunted on an almost daily basis. But now death was lingering on their doorstep, hovering over their beds. Death was a fragrance that lingered underneath their skin. A darker part of Sam was beginning to fathom the possibility of Dean's.. departure.

That was until they heard about the strange happenings in Alice, Texas. The three days prior to the rescue, cattle had been showing up mutilated, people had been disappearing, crops had been destroyed. This widespread phenomenon had covered Alice like a blanket tucked tightly at the corners. The only family that hadn't been affected was the charming family that Sam and Dean met earlier that day; the hick farmers with the dying boy chained in their basement. Their luck seemed unending. It started small; a string of prize winning vegetables, a good and healthy cattle – _none lost this year, ma!_ - a winning scratchcard. These things could've been passed out as perhaps what they appeared to be; a lucky streak. Unfortunately, Sam and Dean Winchester were not the optimistic type. Pretty soon after the Hick family had won 'Best Vegetable Soup Recipe' – _the secret is extra chunk! - _darker things began to happen. People were being injured. Killed.

The brothers had decided to investigate. Their first thought? Witchcraft, of course. Communing with powers of the Unknown, the four watchtowers of the Elements, invoking Old Gods, channeling higher powers.. Sam had combed through all the books, or the scriptures. But nothing. None of it quite matched up. (Whilst Sam had been researching, Dean had been 'investigating further' but he ended up sneaking back into their motel room in the middle of the night reeking of cheap booze and fruity purfume.)

Sam was at a loss. That was, of course, until he had a vision. It was a waking one too, which was uncomfortable enough, the youngest Winchester found them difficult to handle whilst he was sleeping. Dean and Sam had been strolling down the street, Dean checking out 'hotties' and Sam deep in thought. Then the chills came, the convulsions, the cold sweat breaking out of all over his skin.. then darkness. Sam awoke in the motel room, the windows curtained over and the room a bracing chill; it soothed his burning body. Dean was watching him from the other bed, sat forwards with his hands steepled. He looked troubled. Sam had opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, then had told him about the boy he had seen chained in a basement. The markings had been clear; ritualistic but none they had encountered before.  
That was not all he had seen. He had not told Dean, no, not yet.  
With the thin knowledge they had, they had rushed to the Hick house with guns blazing. And perhaps lady luck was real because they had both escaped unscathed, and had brought the boy with them. And he was still alive.. somehow.

"Sam?"  
"Huh?" Sam's head bolted up, he didn't realise he had dozed off. The boy was still asleep, nestled away beside's Sam.  
"We're here," Dean grunted, jerking his head towards the crappy motel they had been staying at. Alice wasn't known for it's excellent accommodation. But it had relatively clean rooms, a working coffee machine and hot water. That was enough. Neither one of them cared for the .99 furniture though. Truly, 'Home Away From Home" was a paradise.  
Sam nodded, and the two of them managed to get out of the car safely with the boy once again curled up in Sam's arms. Sam didn't mind. Dean grunted again, wiped down the backseat with the palms of his hand frowning, then locked the impala up.  
"You take 'im to the room," Dean shoved the keys to the door in Sam's jeans pocket, ushering him away. "I'll go get some extra blankets from reception, you're gonna be cold."  
Sam's eyes, though cloudy with thought, widened his surprise. "What, why?"  
For the first time in days, Dean smiled genuinely. "Well the kid's not having my bed." With that, Sam was left standing dumbly with an unconscious, or deeply sleeping, almost-corpse in his arms. "Huh?"

.

* * *

.

Dean rang the bell on reception's desk with a hidden boyish glee. Nobody rushed towards him so he rang it again, then again, and a fourth time for good measure.  
"WHAT?!" A gruff voice barked and, like magic, a balding man appeared at the desk, scratching his ass. He had emerged from the bathroom.  
"Hi," Dean greeted him, feigning a chipper, happy attitude like the one he had used to secure the room furtherest away from spying eyes. "I'd like to.. request some more, er, blankets."  
The man, who's gut was popping over the front of his slacks, blinked. He looked angry.  
Dean blinked. "Please?"  
"What for?" The man asked, leaning against the desk, in what Dean assumed to be 'intimidating.'  
"Er. Just for me and my, er, guest."  
The man blinked this time, grimacing. The look of disgust on his face was evident. Dean frowned, feeling scrutinized by the man.  
"You a queer?"  
The question fell out of the man's mouth like something physical, Dean felt like he had been punched. Although he obviously wasn't gay, nor did he have a problem with anyone who was, the disgust and loathing behind the question felt like a physical blow. He was used to werewolves, vampires, demons. Not bigotry and discrimination. He felt anger rise up in his chest.  
"So what if I am?"  
The man coughed, snorted and scratched his ass again, glaring. "It was just a question."  
Dean's eyes glittered. "Yeah, I am, actually. _A _queer."  
"Oh."  
"Yeah."  
"And the guy with the floppy hair -"  
"And the dreamy eyes? Flat stomach. Tall, handsome. That guy?" The words weren't funny coming from Dean's mouth, but sharp and defiant.  
The man looked as if he was going to vomit, or punch Dean in the face. "Yeah. That guy. He's your.. boyfriend then?" He even seemed to look ill saying the dreaded word.  
"Yeah. What of it?"  
"Nothing. S'all. Just a question. I'm sorry, we don't have any blankets for people like you."  
"People like me?"  
"Queers."  
The man had barely finished the sentence when Dean grabbed his greasy vest and pulled him forwards, inches away from his face, Dean could smell the cigarettes on his breath.  
"Listen, you fucking stupid, narrow minded little prick," Dean whispered, pleased to see the man was practically shitting himself. "How about you back the fuck off and get a little fucking enlightenment. Or you'll have to tell you're fucking hick _friends _how you got your ass kicked by a _queer, _a'ight?" he pushed the man backwards, his fists still clenched. The man, who's face had turned a sickly white, like off-milk, nodded and hurried away. Five minutes later, Dean began to walk away with the scratchiest blankets he had ever laid hands on. He didn't want to push his luck.  
"Hey," Dean called back, turning around to face the desk.  
"What?" The man muttered, fear still a high note in his voice.  
"You know the guy with the floppy hair?"  
The man said nothing.  
"Fuck likes a jack rabbit," Dean announced loudly, winking and continued his way to the room, walking as if his posterior was killing him.  
Although the connotations were definitely questionable, the look on the man's face was priceless.

* * *

Dean entered his and Sam's motel room, throwing the blankets at Sam who was stood over the boy. Catching them, Sam frowned.  
"What're you so happy about?"  
"Nothing, babe."  
"Babe?"  
"I eat shit."  
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Huh?"  
Grinning, Dean said, "This is my shit eating grin."  
Sam just stared. Dean shook his head, "Nevermind."

Behind them, the boy stirred. Grabbing the sheets beneath him in white, clenched hands, saying words neither Winchester understood, "Paint the gate black, JD, it's so pretty," before falling back into his almost-catatonic state.


End file.
